


One kiss until we meet again

by captainofthegreenpeas



Category: 16th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, don't you just hate it when your ex steals your treasure ships instead of texting you back
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:54:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27915607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainofthegreenpeas/pseuds/captainofthegreenpeas
Summary: Of all the women in Christendom, it had to be her.
Relationships: Elizabeth I of England/Felipe II de España | Philip II of Spain
Comments: 9
Kudos: 23





	One kiss until we meet again

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a Tumblr prompt. Way longer than I expected, but there was a lot to cram in to get the story to the happy ending. Also I'm not happy about the title, but it's the best i can come up with at the mo, might change it later if i can.

_You are king first, and Philip second_. That is the first lesson all kings must learn. The easiest lesson in principle; one of the hardest in practice. That’s not to say he never can be Philip. He’s Philip with his daughters, and later with his niece-wife Anna. It helps to love your family, because everything must be for them, and for the name: Hapsburg. It binds them together stronger than the communion bread binds all Christians as one.

In the name of the Father, the Son, and Hapsburg policy, a new marriage is made for him to Mary Tudor, his first cousin once removed. This is their chance, their vital chance, to rein England back, and keep the Channel open for their ships to reach the Netherlands by sea. To have a hostile England and a hostile France sandwiching the Channel is rather like being a fishwife who has to walk to market between Scylla and Charybdis.

England has always been something of a wild card in Philip’s eyes, a traditional ally of Spain’s, but prone to temptation when the balance of power is critical. Britain looms in his imagination like Christendom’s shadow, as wild in nature as it is mercurial in religion. But if Hapsburg policy requires him to invade Hell, then he’ll pack his most fireproof cloak.

“Be careful around the Lady Elizabeth,” his chaplain warns him, before he sets sail for England. “Her mother was a great temptress.”

“And Saul was the father of David,” Philip replies, not impolitely. “Which only made David’s achievement greater.”

 _So many rulers were extremes in love or hatred_ , he thinks as he rides through his bride’s kingdom. _They wasted their treasures buying the people’s love, or they ignored their people and earned their hatred_. What he needs of the English is not their love but their acceptance of his presence- and even more importantly, the presence of his son, when his son is born. A son will make England Catholic (at least, officially) and just as importantly, England will be Hapsburg. His wife is eleven years older than him, and not robust. When she falls asleep in the light of the Lord, he will awaken as Regent for their son.

He bows to Mary. His entourage have whispered amongst themselves, that she’s fat, that she’s ugly, she dresses badly. She’s too thin if anything; which does not bode well for childbirth. She’s not ugly, she’s tired. Years of battles have kept her beauty and her hope trapped under siege. She brightens when she sees him, already making him in her mind into her comforter, the father of England’s future. She will lead England out of the wilderness, into the Promised Land, holding his hand.

She understands his Spanish, but doesn’t trust herself to reply. He recites his practiced courtesy, and receives a warmer response than he anticipated. He’s surprised by the enthusiasm she has for card games, for any kind of wager. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. To be a monarch is to live with risk, embrace it, or be tormented by uncertainty. Her half-sister is such an uncertainty; a mystery dressed in riddles, as much a wild card as the English nation. Catholic, until Mary’s back is turned.

“She doesn’t pray for you,” Mary warns him. “Bedingfield told me. Ever since your name was included in the prayers for the monarch, she stopped answering.”

“I’m not surprised. Our children will push her from the succession.”

“What should I do about it?”

“Nothing. She’s not the only one. I doubt your cousins think too fondly of me, especially the Scot. So long as we have no proof of treasonous actions, she can have her private resentments. Leave that scorpion under the stone.”

“Yes, I suppose you must be right.”

The English threw snowballs at his retinue, but he overlooks that, as deaf to their mutterings as the skies. Besides, his retinue are not always terribly likable. _A little bit of humiliation will be good for their pride, keep them from forgetting that I stand above all._

What matters is that the council approve of him, that he can work with them without the bother of replacing them. Tournaments are a pleasant distraction. Organising things is one of the joys of being king, seeing a plan grow and take shape, as beautifully crafted as a tapestry, the uncertain tamed and made certain. (Or as certain as anything can be.) The pageants at their wedding stress that, really, he’s an Englishman at heart, descended from Edward III just like his bride. If he must play English, he will play English. He stands godfather to Sir Henry Sidney’s son, a tiny bundle named after him, with eyes as brown and shining as a tenderly polished pew.

There are eyes always on his actions, he is never unobserved, an actor on a stage that has no wings. Even when he climbs into bed, he is mindful of his dignity, folding his nightshirt so that he does not accidentally bare more flesh than he ought. _Even when I sleep, I cannot sprawl like a drunken peasant on a pile of straw_. Duty continues into the night. He holds his wife like she’s made of glass; that too harsh a movement will break.

What matters is that she conceives, and when he leads the celebrations for the patron saint of the Garter on St George’s Day, she presents herself sideways to the crowd so that all can see the rumours are true, the heir is on the way, and the wild card will gather dust.

A few days later the wild card comes back to the pack. Elizabeth enters Hampton Court through the garden and stays in the lodging for the Prince of Wales, with private access to the royal apartments. The end of April starts false tidings of a royal birth. Bells are rung, anthems sung, all of it empty noise. Philip thinks of Mary and their reputation. It’s not until the middle of May that Elizabeth asks to see the council. The council comes to see her, headed by Gardiner, to command her to submit to Mary. She tells them no.

“No? What is she doing? What is the meaning of this?”

“She can be reconciled. The councillors are the problem. This needs the family touch.”

The clock strikes ten, and Elizabeth is summoned to Mary’s bedchamber, Philip tucked behind the arras.

“You say that you have been wrongfully punished.” 

"I must not say so, if it please Your Majesty, to you.”

“Then belike you will to others!”

 _I am one of the most powerful men in the world_ , Philip thinks, _and I’m hiding behind a curtain_. He’d laugh, but he can’t even do that or he’ll be revealed. He dare not look too long, in case he is discovered, but he dares one glimpse. Black cloth blends her with the shadows, but he spots a crescent of red hair and a pale face amber in the firelight. Her eyes shift for one moment, and he’s sure he’s been spotted, but no trace of it appears on her face. He’s suddenly reminded of Diana and Actaeon, but he’s safe. For now.

June arrives, the baby does not. The whispers come creeping back. The queen’s baby is a lapdog, the queen’s baby is a monkey. It insults both of them. Either he’s sired a monkey, or he’s been cuckolded by a small dog. (Which is worse, he’s not sure.) Abusive papers are thrown into the queen’s chamber; posters are nailed to the palace door.

He holds court while Mary is in confinement, Elizabeth quietly observing everything from the corner. Finally, she rises and approaches him.

“Well, as Mistress Ashley says, ‘a watched pot never boils’. My nephew won’t be born faster by waiting. Come, brother. Let’s ride in the park, and see if Chiron can match Diana for speed.”

They race each other, their servants shrinking into the distance, and Philip forgets his suspicion that this could be a plot to break his neck. He breathes deeply for the first time in England. It makes him feel like his body is ten times the size it was before, air and life rushing in to corners it never had before. They leap the ditch together perfectly, as if their horses shared a mind.

They rein up at the bottom of the hill.

“Call it a draw,” Philip wheezes. “For the sake of our mounts.”

“Does that mean we continue the race on foot?” Elizabeth jokes. “I’ll wager I could hurdle over that hedge.”

“If you slip in the mud I am not carrying you back to court.”

“And if _you_ slip in the mud I am not carrying _you_ back to court.” They laugh. “If we’re to race, you should be a gentleman and let me have a headstart. My legs might be as long as yours, but I’ve got these skirts weighing me down.”

“You’ll just have to race without them,” it comes out more flirtatious than he intended.

She raises her eyebrows, unperturbed. “Careful, brother. Hapsburg or no Hapsburg, I have a horse whip and you will feel it if you’re ungallant.”

For a moment Philip’s imagination is too fruitful for him to say anything. “I should return. Who knows what mischief the court has got up to in our absence.”

“Oh, it’s too late by now,” Elizabeth can’t resist a quip. “The palace will probably be on fire by the time you get back.”

He smiles. “Not coming back?”

“No, I’ll stay out here a little longer.”

“As you wish.”

“You should name my nephew Edward,” she tells him before he gathers speed. “He should have that name.”

In August, Mary’s doctors finally admit defeat. There is no baby, or there never was. So too does Charles, Philip’s father. The burdens of state have finally broken him, so now it’s Philip’s turn. There’s work for Philip to do, but he can’t wait to leave this suspicious country of suspicious people and their suspicious whispers. Everything’s ready for his departure at the end of the month. He’s as gentle with the news as he can be.

“I will only be gone a few weeks,” he tells his wife. He can’t admit just how much he wants to go. Or his budding affair with a certain Countess. He tries to forget England, Mary’s face at their parting and Elizabeth’s eyes, always watching.

A year later, England insists on not being forgotten. The news comes to Brussels. Cat Ashley’s rooms in Elizabeth’s London residence were searched, illicit books and pamphlets found, satirising pope, king and queen. _She’s connected to the Verney plotters_ , Mary explains. Philip replies immediately. _Drop all inquiry into her guilt. Give out that you believe your sister’s servants acted without her knowledge_. He does not rest until the scandal is buried.

No sooner have the Twelfth Night festivities been cleaned up, the Truce of Vaucelles is broken, so war resumes with France. _This is what it means to be a king_ , Philip thinks bitterly. _Like Penelope you sew your tapestry, and like Penelope you are compelled to unstitch every inch of work_.

He returns to England that March, bringing his war plans. He might pass a free hour or two with Elizabeth. He might ask her how she has been, how her translations are going.

He has decided what to do about Elizabeth. There’s no doubt about it, only a Hapsburg man will be good enough. An Englishman would be too factional, and too yielding to the temptations of treason against queen and pope. A Frenchman would be worse. He has just the man: Emmanuel Philibert of Savoy. Philip has heard that Elizabeth favours dark and handsome men, and Philibert is both. He’s more Hapsburg by marriage than by blood, but he’s dependable and has a good head for strategy, so his wits should be sharp enough to keep Elizabeth entertained. To marry Elizabeth to a muttonhead would be a heinous crime. They’ll make a handsome couple, and maybe when their children are old enough, Philip can marry their child to one of his. (But not Carlos.)

Both Mary and Elizabeth refuse. (On the bright side, at least they’re reconciled.) He wonders if Elizabeth is offended by the plan, but if she is, she shows no sign of it. Her pale, calm face and those large watchful eyes make him think of owls. Like with a bird of prey, he wants to hold his arm out, to offer her a place to rest.

“Shall we have some music, sister? A dance?”

“A galliard. A pavane will send me to sleep.” She takes care not even to mention a volta.

She keeps him informed of how she does, once she leaves court. Her translation goes well, and he contemplates requesting a copy. Perhaps he could read it on campaign, or find some Italian books for her in exchange.

Mary dies late in the next year, and the King of Spain must react.

“I feel…” The dead child. The silent crowds. “I feel…” The weeping. “Reasonable regret.”

There is no time to waste, whatever Philip might want to do. Suitors will flock to Elizabeth the moment the news reaches them. Of course, she’ll pick a husband of one of them. Philip does not dream of questioning her crown. Schismatic she might be, she has one eternal virtue: not being French. If only a Hapsburg will do, then who better than himself? The Hapsburg of Hapsburgs? He’ll see to it that they get the dispensation. He knows it’s premature- she hasn’t accepted his proposal yet- but he can’t resist planning their wedding in his head. Cloth of gold, as beautiful and powerful as young gods. Metaphorically, of course.

The answer eventually comes: a polite refusal. _This is for the best_ , he tells himself. Now he can have the benefit of an alliance, and leave himself free to make peace with the French through marriage. If she marries a Frenchman, he’d better be quick to marry a Frenchwoman of higher rank, to prevent France and England from turning on him as one.

They settle into an easy rhythm. She leaves English Catholics alone, which pleases him, his agents in Rome make sure the Pope does not act against her, which pleases her. It’s perfectly fine, that he wishes her well. Heretic or no heretic, she’s an ally, and you’re supposed to hope that your allies are safe and well and in good spirits. If your allies thrive, you thrive. That’s how it works. Sometimes he catches himself searching for her eyes in his collection of Titian’s paintings.

The Northern Rebellion ruins everything. The Catholics rise, which gives the Pope the idea they could overthrow Elizabeth, so he stops listening to Philip. It takes less than two years for Elizabeth to be excommunicated, declared a heretic and a usurper, and her subjects absolved from allegiance. This will drive her into the Protestant camp. He can no longer wish her well. Philip can love her, the King of Spain cannot.

He dreams of her hair, of weaving that red silk with orange blossoms. Trailing his fingers across her skin, hearing her sigh his name…an elbow in the ribs. He snaps into wakefulness. The Host was raised, all eyes were upon it, except for one of the altar servers, who had clearly been staring up at the sleeping king, unsure what to do. _I’m going to have to confess that_ he despairs. _Forgive me, Father, I have sinned. I lusted after my schismatic sister-in-law. In my dreams. During Mass._

She helps herself to his treasure ships, because of course she does. She makes excuses, but he knows she's behind it. _It's what I'd do, if I were her_. He moves on from her, that marriage proposal was just one of many plans he's made over the years that didn't come to pass for one reason or another. It's the nature of being king, plans are made, unmade, remade. Even successful plans are never as they were when they were first thought of. Of all the plans that never happened, it was the one he was most excited about, but that's neither here nor there. 

She doesn't make war on him directly, she does very few things directly, but she's backing the Protestants in the Netherlands. _Heretic. Schemer. Magnificent creature._

This quarrel between them brings no profit, and no joy. He asks himself, asks God, the same question year after year. _Why does she not convert? Why does she cling to her old denials?_ He had always thought she'd return to the Catholic church like the prodigal son, eventually, through her reason. She's an intelligent woman, why does she resist the truth? Will they be making war until they die? If she goes to Hell, he won't even see her after death. Never hear her laugh, never spar with her, never see her deep in thought. 

_What do I do?_ He's stuck in a rut of indecision. She keeps provoking him, politically, though he knows the Anjou negotiations are just another trick. He can't make peace with heretics, but what about the good of the Hapsburgs?

Philip Sidney is what breaks the pair of them out of their indecision. He's to command Protestant troops in the Netherlands, but all Philip can think of is that baby, that little baby with his name, those shining wise eyes. He has a dream of those eyes vaporised by fire, and wakes up sweating. _I'm his godfather. I swore in the sight of God to guide him. How can I look God in the face and tell him I failed, that my armies killed him?_

"We will make peace with England." He announces to his council, concise as he always is. 

"It cannot be done."

"It can. It must. I had a prophetic dream."

"Of course, but the English-"

"I will talk to Elizabeth. Not to her councillors. We will make peace with honour." _Blessed are the peacemakers. I need to feel God's blessings again_. Old age should be blessed, if aging brings its curses. _Perhaps I need her, too. She is my kind._ _The lonely should seek their kind._

"How is this peace to last, majestad, when the English queen is so changeful in her humours?"

"I will offer the queen my hand in marriage. Again."

It takes over a year for the peace to be agreed upon. The negotiations are no more favourable than those for his marriage to Mary. War is draining both their coffers, but too many concessions will anger their peoples. His son, also called Philip, will have no claim on the English throne. If her new husband dies, Elizabeth will have a jointure fit for an empress, but not his crown. Philip swears on the sacrament that he will not oppose the queen’s choice of successor, nor advocate for laws against the English Protestants, and his son does the same. Between them, they carve up the Netherlands. Elizabeth will have the Protestant morsels, Philip the Catholic. Attacks on Spanish ports must stop, privateers must keep their hands off the treasure ships, and in return the English may help themselves to all of the lands north of Florida, and trade with Spanish colonies across the globe. Drake and Ralegh will not be executed, but neither will Philip’s agents. Philip will secure from the Pope the end of her excommunication, making her removal sinful once again, but in return the recusants must be pardoned, and the penalties lifted. Mass may be held in private homes again. If Mary Stuart tries to take the throne, she will face the wrath of Spain. The Puritans are furious, but Parliament as a whole is tempted by the prospect of lower taxes and better trade- and the marriage is just for the lifetime of the queen. There can be no Catholic heir.

He’s lost quite a lot of hair, and she’s lost quite a lot of teeth, but though they’re a little broader than when they first met, health and exercise have kept them both supple and energetic. She still has her austere beauty, he still has the stern expression that amuses her.

“I would unroll the world as a carpet for your feet.”

“I do need a new carpet,” she replies solemnly.

They marry on the centenary of Bosworth. He is in crimson velvet and cloth of gold, she is in black silk, white brocade, and cloth of gold, the pair of them rattling with jewels. _We are the eighth wonder of the world_. A magnificent pageant is staged, first at court and then all over London, of Venus defeating Mars. Elizabeth orders that royal companies tour the cities, to show the pageant to the people to win them to the marriage. The pair of them are so worn by the festivities of marriage, they go straight to sleep after the bed has been blessed, Philip snoring, Elizabeth snoring louder.

They take their time in the morning, there’s no rush, this is not about producing an heir. She has lost her Eyes, her Frog. He has lost Elisabeth and Anna, and nine of his children, but they have found each other again.

She rests her chin on his chest, smiling mischievously up at him. “So tell me, was that worth waiting thirty years?”

“Absolutely.” He hugs her tightly. “Give me fifty minutes.” She kisses him, feathering her lips up his neck.

“ _mmhmmm_ , make that fifteen.”

**Author's Note:**

> OK so maybe I nicked that riding race from Elizabeth: The Golden Age but hey ho do I care? Not really. Especially as that movie had a hilariously inaccurate Philip, so I'm simply readjusting the balance. It was a fun challenge, coming with a happy ending that was not too implausible, given all the many many obstacles (religion, politics, Elizabeth's hang-ups about marriage and childbirth) and it was rather refreshing to look at things from Phil's POV.


End file.
